


You are the Grand Highblood

by KuraiYukita



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, and you. got one., that was the plan, to give you a sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraiYukita/pseuds/KuraiYukita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the Grand Highblood.<br/>And you have existed for a long time. You are starting to get rather tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are the Grand Highblood

_You were a grub._  
A small grub, along with the other small grubs, wriggling around in the caverns along with the other newly hatched little infants. They left the caverns, they all did. Death wasn't odd, no one paid any heed to the dead friends lying around them. Why would they? No reason to care about the strangers, wouldn't help them. Wouldn't help him.

_You were a small troll._  
Newly pupated, standing on your own two legs. You were large for your age, not unnaturally so, but still larger than the others.  
Others, you didn't know any others, not yet at least. Too busy finishing the trials, you needed a lusus, needed someone to teach you about the world.  
Needed to survive.

_You were one sweep old._  
Sea goat, that was your lusus, so gentle and loving, but always so distant, as an old troll. Tired of everything, making sure that you grow up, make him proud.  
You made him proud, didn't you?

_You were three sweeps._  
Muscular, always were, still are, of course. Violent, just like every other indigo.  
Worshipper of the Mirthful Messiahs, indeed. Old seagoat didn't care much, simply watched you, luring the beasts near to make you stronger. Always slung you down every time you attacked your lusus, can't do that, no, you're a bad child, should control yourself.  
You continue praying to the Messiahs.

_You were five sweeps old._  
And you are a monster. Your lusus never agreed with you, never listened, never cared. You disliked, being treated like a grub. You were growing up, he was supposed to listen to you. What else does he have to say, to teach you? Nothing. Nothing more for him to say.  
And you made sure of that.  
Now there's nothing to return to. It's time to go to the place you were supposed to be.

_You were six sweeps old._  
It was easy, finding this place. Often spoken about, often visited. Sweeply pilgrimage to their hive.  
Yours too now. You joined them, the subjugglators, you belong here, nowhere else.  
Oh, how you enjoyed it. Played with the others, your fellow Believers. You rarely saw the Leader, only during sermons, but you made a bad habit of following the Trained and Destroyed.  
How you long for the day ‘til you become one of them, next to the Leader, closer to the Messiahs.  
You still miss your lusus.

_You were eight sweeps old._  
Two sweeps you’ve spent your time training, two sweeps of fighting the beasts of the wild when having the chance, and battling the adults.  
So often, you have lost, your body broken, the pain everywhere and there’s no mercy.  
You have no need for mercy. Because now, the pain is dull and your body is strong, the defeats have hardened you into the warrior you have become.  
Your lusus is becoming a faint memory, but you still long for his warmth.

_You were thirteen sweeps old._  
And you have finally died. Your body lies numb on the altar as everyone mutters the prayers around you, and you feel nothing, you are nothing anymore, only a husk.  
And slowly, by the hands of the messiahs, your soul is robbed away. His embrace is warm, warmer than your poor lusus lying dead, rotten, eaten up on the shore, cold and lifeless, just like you. And then you burn, you watch the world crumble away before your eyes and your soul is destroyed.  
You open your eyes, and all you can do is scream.

_You were fifteen sweeps old._  
Massive monster, that is what you are now. Your body is growing until every bone is creaking, cracking and popping, and nothing hurts, would be a shame if it did, you’d be a failure.  
Everything is growing wild, your mutation, that is. Large, powerful, frightening. A giant beast, one could say, with the thick hair growing everywhere and large, clawed hands, digging into the ground as you chase your victims. The eyes glow bright, and you laugh, or is it the chucklevoodos?  
You don’t know anything anymore, and you know everything; this is the madness you have grown to have, the roots wrapping itself around your broken soul, and in your ears are the tiny buds of voices, ready to whisper in your ear.  
You are the host of the messiahs, you know, where else would he plant his seed?

_You are seventeen sweeps old._  
You grow and train, master your body given to you by the messiahs, use the chucklevoodos. Rarely though, too wild to use it properly, too mad to control it and direct it.  
The leader is disappointed, he had hoped for better. But what does he know? The Messiahs have abandoned him, he doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t need the approval of the Leader who cannot hear the voices of the Messiahs.  
No, you only need the two-faced deity, you Messiahs; you only craves his approval, and no one else’s.

_You are nineteen sweeps old._  
Patience, he whispers in your ear, the bud blooming ever so slowly, and you preach for the people, let the true words of the messiahs reach their ears. Ever so slowly you take over. Sermon after sermon, and the leader is so tired, looks so worn; his old words of wisdom and miracles have disappeared.  
You see him, your beloved master of death, your messiahs, smiling at you among the masses, and you feel your dead heart throb. But once it stops throbbing, it begins hurting, and you feel ashamed.  
The Leader lies dead in front of you all, and so is the Messiahs’ wish fulfilled. They all bow before you.

_You are… twenty five sweeps old._  
Time. Sweeps, age. It loses its meaning once you are dead, loses its meaning when you simply exist to preach and hunt. You, hah, live on the pleasure of your messiahs’ approval, the constant talking in your ears, and you let it eat you up.  
Mad and wild, violent and aggressive, trolls of every caste fear you and you wish for nothing less, you do not need the approval of those who cannot hear the words of your Messiahs.

_You have ceased to care how many sweeps you are now._  
Time has lost its meaning, no, all that you know of is the talking in your head. You are growing older with each day, but it doesn’t matter, because even if a hundred sweeps pass, you will still exist.

_At least twenty sweeps must have passed._  
All you hear is your children, the children of the messiahs, and nothing more. So many enter the hive, and so few leave. You are one of them, and you are just as dead as all who visit. But he is glad they stay, at least.  
The colours are beautiful, after all.

_Ten sweeps pass, according to the children._  
It’s funny, how you never noticed before. How none of the highbloods noticed.  
A new preacher, not belonging here, not belonging anywhere, wandering all over Alternia. Do you follow him? Of course, it’s your job, you tell yourself, your reason for existing. Remove the weed of hope, it burns your fingers, but no light shall exist. Not in your world.  
That is what you tell yourself, but you continue following for nights and nights, watching the troll  
from the shadows.  
He speaks of things, things which should never happen, so wrong and sick and utterly delusional. But you do not dare to touch him. The light hurts enough to sting.  
And then he is there in front of you, asking for permission to visit, the silly fool, such an easy prey, you think as you reach out your hand. But he holds it and gives you that smile, so full of pity and strength, and the hand on your cheek burns so warm, like heated iron, and you lean into the touch.

_A sweep has passed, you know, he keeps track of it._  
A burning touch turned soothing, and now you find yourself searching for it. It’s pleasant, holding him close to your cool body and, for once in so many sweeps, just resting. Pure silence.  
Do you feel empty? No, the silence is filled up by the paleness for your moirail.  
Odd, moirail. Over sixty sweeps, and now, finally, you have someone you pity.  
The Messiahs still smile at you in the crowds. No, you haven’t lost him.

_Two sweeps pass._  
Too quickly, too soon, a revolution led by him. You still hear him plead, ask you, please don’t get involved, stay safe my dearest palemate, and now he’s gone. No, not dead yet, he’s there in front of you, hanging from the cuffs, burning his skin just as his touch burned yours the first time you met.  
But this will not cool down, the skin melting into the iron, and you want to scream, just as his dearest mate, you wish to cry for the first time in so many sweeps, just as the Lady Dolorosa, you wish you could fight to free him, just like the Psiioniic.  
And then he screams, your heart shatters and lies broken on the floor as he saves you from the pain of an unbroken moirallegiance, but now, you await a future of regret which will never end.  
Past the guards runs the Disciple, quick on her feet, tears in her eyes and blood on her hands and the pants tightly held as she disappears from the world, just like her beloved.  
The Psiioniic, the poor man, dragged away to the empress of us all, never seen again, but always heard, the suffering of the revolutionists never forgotten.  
You watch the grieving mother disappear with the chains holding her back. The lady you have always respected and feared, it is hard not to; even though those jade tears stain her face, her back is straight, and as she looks over at you, there is only one thing you can mouth.  
I'm so sorry.

_Time has ceased to matter once more._  
The world is silent again, silent with the fear of the warmbloods and the silent pride which those with ice in their veins hold in their head. But hearts are screaming in rage, and the world is slowly shifting back and forth with the silent revolutions.  
Hope ceased to exist. Or did it ever? You never cared about the freedom of the lowbloods, you never cared about equality, you have your own faith and that is death. But your hope was the Signless and the warmth he gave you, and now it's gone.  
Momentary pleasures, they are all that exist now, just like before him. Such as the lady who bears the mark of his suffering around her neck, hidden behind her clothes, away from eyes of the public, but shining bright for those who know.  
She is hunting for the one who makes the suffering mother cry, along with one who belongs to the sea, and you help her.  
A purpose, for once, but it is all a simple game for the four of you. The ones of the seas, living on their ships and chasing each other where you and the lady of dragons cannot reach, they are surrounded by black, prolonging the spider's death with lies. But you and the lady know, yet never act, because death is sweetest once the fruit is ripe.

_A sweep, two sweeps passes by._  
The game is a bore, and that you all know. And it all has come to an end, because when the merman stands in front of you and tells you the spider's plans once again, how he has broken her precious little toy with the rare hue, the world is red and your walls are purple. There is a grin on your messiahs face, and he laughs as they cradle the body in his arms and takes him away to the land of darkness, just like you, perigrees later, with the lady of dragons dangling from the noose fastened to her sign, and the world around you is empty.  
And your own world has grown cold once again, no warmth from the scales to heat you up.

_How many sweeps pass by? Ten? Fifteen? Does it really matter?_  
Perhaps not, because all you see is red and hate, pure, black hate, and all you can do is to give the smiling, winged bastard above you a roar. But no, you never stop there, do you? Now, you are never satisfied, because for every drop of his brown blood you want more, you wish to break him and destroy him with your bare hands, yet not, you do not want to lose him to death either.  
But we all know how it ends, don't we? A pity, such a young troll, so strong, managing to awaken hate within you, a leader who will finally settle this world’s craving for blood, with his own life.  
You hold his head in your hands as you receive the message from the drones, we are moving, we leave this world for the rest of the universe.  
The children gather, the subjugglators all stand in the sermon room, and you begin to speak, and they all cry, because no more will the safety of this hive exist, no more will the voice of messiahs reach them.  
And so, for once, you cry with them all, reduced to what you were when you first arrived at this place, a small grubling searching for safety. And now, your past will disappear, from this night and forever, you are nothing more than a tool for the empire.

_The day pass and the night comes far too soon._  
You and the adults of your family leave for the ships, all too early, and the children cry, the face of your messiahs is melting as they disappear into the crowd, as they watch you disappear into the darkness of the ship. Your head hurts, you hear the screaming, the crying, begging and pleading from the ship, and you know who it is, you never forgot who he is and you're so, so sorry.  
It is funny, seeing your planet grow smaller, until it is swallowed up by space, just like you, and you lie down to rest, let the coldness of the foreign world eat you up, swallow you whole and to never let you go, and as you close your eyes, your messiahs never speak again.  
Good night, my world, good night my children, until the day we meet once more.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Be the Ancestors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030454) by [EtcheStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtcheStone/pseuds/EtcheStone)




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